catheroominations

As most of you know, I am running my first half marathon this Sunday. It will take me a while forever and I need to fill my iPod playlist with many, many tunes. Unfortunately I’m having trouble finding songs I’m not tired of hearing. I need a cheering section throughout the 13-mile endeavor (in forecasted 44 degrees and possible rain, with 19 mph winds), so if you would be so kind as to give me the name (and artist) of one song (or a few, or several) to add to my playlist, it’ll be like you’re in my ear, saying, “GO CATH! You can do it!”

It would help if the song was on the upbeat high-energy spectrum, but anything is fine…except for lullabies. Probably not such a good idea. Also, I hate Celine Dion, so you can skip her entirely.

Even if the song is not my usual taste (but I like all types of music so I’m not sure what my taste is) I will play it during the run (except for Celine, and assuming I can download it somewhere), and I will know that you’re cheering me on in spirit. I’m even putting your name in the title, so when I look at my iPod, it will remind me who suggested the song. I can almost feel the love already!

Some of you offered tunes by commenting on an earlier request I posted for cardio songs, and I plan on using some of those as well. But I need to fill like THREE HOURS of time.

So far, from input from co-workers, I have quite an eclectic mix: Jay Z, Van Halen, Michael Jackson, Metallica, Pink, Hot Hot Heat, Pat Benatar, and Thicke to name a few.

So what song do you want me to run to and think of you?

Even though that bit of wisdom was on the inside of my Dove Milk Chocolate today, I don’t think it meant, “Think you can only eat 5 of these? Go ahead, eat more! Keep going! You can DO IT!” Seriously, I don’t need a fortune to tell me to eat more chocolate, but it’s nice to have the permission to do so. (I refrained, by the way. The chocolate, he will not win!)

BUT! I did take the sentiment to heart, with regard to my upcoming half marathon on Sunday. Sure, I’ve never run 13.1 miles before. My limit is 10 miles. That’s as far as I go. Ten. That’s it. But on Sunday, at mile 10, I will keep going because 1) awesome people have donated over $3,000 to the cause, in good faith that I will actually complete this endurance event for which I solicited donations, 2) I want a freaking medal, 3) my husband, my friends, and perfect strangers will be cheering for me as I pass them on the course and 4) I want to run farther than I’ve ever run before. Ever.

Yes, I want to run the distance of Manhattan from tip to tip. I want to pound the pavement running around Golden Gate Park for nearly 3 hours (and hopefully stay under that time, please, oh please). It might be raining. It will be cold. At times, I will rather be on my couch in my jammie pants and slippers under the soft and fuzzy Green Bay Packer blanket, playing Super Mario Galaxy on the Wii, while eating Dove dark chocolates and sipping Murrieta’s Well Zarzeula. But instead of jammie pants, there will be panting. Instead of slippers, Brooks running shoes. My black running pants and official TNT race shirt will keep me warm and toasty, and I will be playing my iPod. Chocolate and wine will be replaced by Jelly Belly Sports Beans and Gatorade.

And when I am done, when I have crossed the finish line, there will be tears.* Tears of joy, of pain, of relief. Tears that say, “Sweet Baby Jeebus, I did it!” Also, possibly tears of not receiving a medal because I ran slower than 6,000 people and those tears will say “I ran a @#$%ing half marathon and all I @#$%ing got was this @#$%ing stupid @#$%ing t-shirt. @#$%ing @#$%!!”

I am ready.

*Coincidentally, this also often happens while I play Super Mario Galaxy.

Look how wrinkled his sweater is. The man can put on clothes that are wadded up on the floor, and look good. (Also he seems to be growing an American Broadcasting Company logo from the top of his head, but this does not diminish the SEX-AY one bit.) I hope he wears something wrinkled on the day I see him because I will gladly (and not at all stalkersihly) offer to take him home with me and iron his clothes.

Who am I kidding? This will never happen…my offering to provide domestic help to him. But I am going to see him. Thanks to Jeff, who (I think, as a funny joke) left a comment on my last post that although I probably could not chase Taye around Golden Gate Park on Super Bowl Sunday, he would be in my neck of the woods in the near future.

What?! Where?! When?!

The site Jeff directed me to said to check for more information soon. Well, I don’t wait so well, so I consulted my boyfriend Google, and learned that Teh Hotness is teaching jazz and hip hop workshops at a local dance studio next month. Taye Effing Diggs. Teaching a dance class in my ‘hood. My dance skillz don’t go much beyond shuffle-ball-change (although I have taken a couple of pole dancing lessons, ahem), so I maybe, just maybe will won’t be a student of Mr. Diggs (although I would totally offer to stay after school and bang…erasers).

Far be it from me to pass up an opportunity to see celebrities live and in person. Once upon a time I bought tickets to watch Brandon Walsh, Chandler Bing, and Uncle Joey play hockey, and I don’t even really like hockey. (BTW, I didn’t go to see Uncle Joey, it was all about Matthew Perry back then.) Anyway, the dance studio is offering “observation-only” ticket for the classes, so I am going. Seriously. I am going to pay money to see the man responsible for reinstating Stella’s groove exhibit his talents. The more I think about those swiveling hips, the more I want to be his padawan. But then I remember that people are paying to watch this class, and although nearly all eyes will be on the instructor, people will see me make a complete ass of myself. Not to mention the fabulous impression I would make on #1 on my Laminated List of 5.

When I called to reserve my spot, I asked about the camera policy (to exercise my new zoom lens). The woman on the phone said that she hadn’t clarified that with him yet, but she was trying to get cameras allowed. She added, “And if they are allowed, you can bet I’ll be the first one whipping mine out! I get to pick him up at the airport! I sure hope we don’t get lost on the way back, after picking him up.” She was positively giddy. I told her to have my number handy should they encounter any car trouble. I’m somewhat of a Good Samaritan like that. Always willing to help my fellow man. Especially when my fellow man is smokin’ hawt.*

*Also, Taye’s wife, Idina Menzel, is positively adorable. I was fortunate enough to see Wicked in San Francisco before it went to Broadway, and Idina’s Tony Award-winning performance took my breath away. She is fantastic. So…if she’s there, a threesome wouldn’t totally be out of the question.

I ran 10 miles for the second time yesterday. This time I hardly walked at all, except for the 1-minute walk portion of my 5-mile run, 1-minute walk interval. I ran with a TNT teammate, we took it very slow, and we took a LONG time. I run like a snail, I really do. This concerns me because only the first 6,000 finishers receive medals at the half marathon I am running IN TWO WEEKS. They allow 10,000 to register. That means, I have to run faster than FOUR THOUSAND PEOPLE. Not going to happen, nope.

It should be noted that I have never won a medal, trophy, or ribbon in anything, except for a First Place prize that everyone in my 5th grade class got who submitted a book for the elementary school young author’s book fair. And that ribbon was a piece of blue “ditto” paper, cut into the shape of a ribbon, pasted to the inside front cover of The True Story of Smokey, my cat. Around that time there were several unauthorized autobiographies about him, but I wrote the truth.

Now where was I? Oh. Yeah. I want a freaking medal for running 13.1 miles, dammit. Just knowing that I completed such an event should be validation enough for me, but it isn’t. I want concrete, material evidence of my efforts! Bragging rights! So I can be all, “Look what I did! I have a medal! Do you have any half marathon medals? No? I must be better than you then!” I would then huff hot air on it and polish it on my shirt for effect. Also, if I get a medal, it means I did not come in last, which is something that is unacceptable to me. I hate don’t mind that I’m slow, or that I am the last person to finish a timed trial at our workouts. There are just 40 or so people there, and most of them have done this whole running thing for years. But out of thousands of people, surely there should be a few slower than I, right? I mean, I have to be faster than the walkers, don’t I? Please, can 4,000 people be walking that day?

Maybe I should look into buying those shoes with skates on the bottom. Heelies? Is that what they’re called? Maybe then I’ll gain some speed on these people.

Maybe Barry Bonds can juice me up before, since I will be in San Francisco and all.

I know! Have Taye Diggs running ahead of me in nothing but black boxer briefs, and Dexter chasing after me with a hypodermic needle and cranial saw. Then, maybe I can run faster. Maybe.

Ooh! I could put Ex-Lax in the water at the hydration stations. Scratch that. It’s just mean. Plus, it could backfire because I would probably need the facilities at some point, and the lines would be insane, thus extending my time even more.

Le sigh.

Perhaps I should hail a cab and ride to near the end of the course, and then sprint across the finish line, all fresh and lovely like Katie Holmes did in New York. (NOTE: I’m saying she finished looking lovely, not accusing her of taking a cab or being transported by Xenu-led aliens or anything.)

Did you know that the winning team in the Super Bowl gets a trophy AND each player gets a big, huge, gaudy ring, even those who DID NOT PLAY in the game? And some of the players already have a ring or two. Award hogs! Can’t there be a rule at this half marathon where those who already have medals wait until medals are presented to all who have never received one? That seems totally fair to me. Were I one of those people with piles of medals, I would surely offer mine to a poor soul who ran too slowly in her first half marathon to beat four thousand other runners. Because I’m nice like that.

I never was into sports growing up. Well, except for figure skating (I had Dorothy Hamil’s haircut) and a bit of women’s tennis (does anyone ELSE remember Tracy Austin and her pigtails?). In college, when I dated a guy from Kentucky, I got sucked in to NCAA men’s basketball. I knew every single player’s name on the Wildcats team. I watched religiously, or as religiously as I could, living in the Bay Area. But when I moved to Kentucky, I was up to my eyeballs in Kentucky Basketball. And I loved it. Not only did I know the names of the players, but I knew their girlfriends’ names. I went to the games, even some SEC championship games. I screamed for the team, and I went to the airport to greet them when they returned from out-of-town. I went to Rite-Aid (or was it Drug Emporium?) to meet two of the players (Rodney Dent (did you know he was born on Christmas day?) and Gimel Martinez) and stood in line with the umpteen moms with their 10-year old sons to wait for my turn to get a picture with them. I was a fan superfan. Also, I was a geek.

But never have I been a fan of football. Not that I don’t like it, I just never cared either way. I know who Joe Montana is, and Steve Young too (and OJ, of course), and I recall the SuperBowl Shuffle by the Chicago Bears.

That is ALL I know about football.

Don’t believe me?

Here’s a snippet of a conversation I had with Matte during yesterday’s Dallas LOSS (la la la):
Me: What’s a down?
Matte: Well, when the ball is snapped and…
Me: What does snapped mean?

Seriously! I didn’t know! (But before you think I’m a moron, I can tell you what section of the ISO standard for medical devices deals with document control. Can YOU?) And despite my embarrassing lack of knowledge regarding football, I do know that I want the Packers to win this coming weekend. And then I want them to kick Patriot ass on February 3. Because, for one reason, I am a little bit in love with Brett Favre right now (meee-yow!). Also, there’s that whole National Championship title thing that comes with it, but whatever.

P.S. Matte told me to add “Lombardi’s trophy deserves to be home.” I have no idea what that means.

Someone has taken my brain, placed it one of those mesh metal baskets and dropped it into a vat of boiling oil. It’s fried, people. To a crisp.

My week-long class was intense. It was so unlike any “seminar” I’ve attended. This was like a college course packed into one week, complete with writing a paper and taking a final exam on the last day. 10 hours a day of instruction, daily quizzes, reading assignments, and workshops kept me from eating even remotely healthy foods and getting enough rest.

Last night, while I slept in my own bed, visions of my final paper and exam answers danced in my head and I realized where I messed up, and what answers I got wrong. Not-so-sweet dreams. There’s nothing I can do about it now. But if I don’t pass, I will cry.

I’m still not done with this damn cold that caused my sinus infection and that is pissing me off. Had I bailed on the training (and lost the $1,700 course fee), I probably could have called in sick to work and gotten rest and fluids last week. But I couldn’t get out of taking the class. So I am still sick.

My half marathon is THREE WEEKS from tomorrow. Today, my Team in Training group is doing another long run at a beautiful location and I have to miss it because my head is so full of snot and phlegm, I could probably only make it 1/16 of a mile. I haven’t run much in the last three weeks so I was really looking forward to getting back into it once class was over. But I can’t yet. Worse, I’m afraid all the training I did before Christmas will be out the window. I have not run a distance longer than 10 miles, and the one time I did that in mid December, I was miserable. I want to try 10 miles again before the race on SuperBowl Sunday, but I don’t see how that can happen.

Usually, being sick doesn’t bother me so much. But I don’t usually have a half marathon to run, and I can take the time required to get well. If I miss work this week because I’m sick, I do not care. I need to get back to my normal clearly breathing, not sneezing, not stuffy-headed self. I like that person much more than this one.

FYI: having a sinus infection on an airplane is HIGHLY UNPLEASANT. Also, sinus infections can cause toothaches. This is good news I was happy to learn because I could not endure that for much longer and I wouldn’t be able to go to the dentist until a week from tomorrow. I will be in a class for 14 hours (yes 14 hours) a day starting tomorrow. It starts at 7 am and ends at 5, but then afterwards we have evening workshops that last until after 9 pm. Fun times.

I’m sick and I need rest and I want my own bed. Although, a deluxe room in a hotel in San Francisco could be nice too. Especially because it comes with a Bath Butler. Someone will come and actually draw me a bath. This drawing of the bath will have to happen at 11 pm or so though, so I might need to ask him to stay in the room and make sure I don’t doze off and slide underwater.

I don’t have time to be sick right now. I’m supposed to focus in this training class, do group presentations, and pass a final at the end. All with a pressurized head full of phlegm. But I have my antibiotics so the pressure should subside soon (I hope).

So, when should I rest to get over this sinus thing? Maybe when the class is over on Friday. That will be beneficial, I’m sure.

I had planned to at least try a treadmill run or go outside in San Francisco and run this week while I’m there for this training. Running would have to happen at either 5 am or at 11 pm, so, I might as well be sick since running at those times is not ideal.

The good news is that ffter this training is over (assuming I pass the exam), I will be certified and will be able to perform specialized duties at work. I think I should ask for a raise. Don’t you? And a vacation. Who cares if I just got back from one on Friday?

P.S: This post is a little bit all over the place, but I’m on drugs.